Page 22 of Sinful Scot
How had she gotten here? McCaim obviously had something to do with it, but it hardly mattered. She nibbled on her lip as the crossbill started its high-pitched chirp from the pine trees to signal to the other forest creatures that it was time to wake up. A chilly wind rustled her hair and tingled her skin as her thoughts jumped from one to the next.
Her betrothal was ruined. She’d spent the night—or had she?—with a man in the woods. She stole a glance at his long, solid, sleeping form. Baron Bellecote certainly would not want to wed her now. She had failed Deirdre and Yearger, and she had defied King Alexander’s wishes for her. Not by her own choice, of course. Well, not completely. McCaim had clearly taken her, though she had made the choice to go to him, drug the guard, and free the stranger, and for that she would have to accept her punishment.
Unless…
Aye! That’s it!
Her thoughts scrambled wildly. She’d make her way back to Kinghorn immediately and tell them McCaim had taken her when she’d gone in to free him. Perhaps the queen would be lenient with her for aiding him once she explained that she’d lied about his ties to the Devil to save his hands. It hardly mattered now if she kept that secret, given the baron would never wed a woman who’d spent the night with another man, whether by choice or not. Deirdre would still be furious with her for ruining the betrothal, as would Yearger, but that could not be changed now. They would forgive her eventually. She hoped. Regardless, she had to return to the castle and try to reduce the consequences of her actions.
When McCaim groaned again her attention was drawn to him once more. Why had he not awoken? She eyed him from where she crouched, then swept her gaze over the area for a marker she recognized. But they were deep in the woods where all trees looked the same. The sun had managed to filter in through the canopy around them, but it hit the forest floor in slashes. The bramble was thick here, and the trees were large, roots gnarled and twining across the dirt. They seemed to be in the thick of the dense brush. She suspected that was purposeful on McCaim’s part. He’d taken her. Snatched her. Hit her? She raised her hand to her head once more and gently pressed her fingertips to her skull, searching for an injury. It didn’t take long before she felt the large egg-sized bump on her head.
Frowning, she glanced back at his still form. He slept like the dead.
Oh God!
She scrambled toward him, her palms scraping on pebbles and twigs, and she brushed away the leaves from his forehead, then shoved back a lock of thick, dark hair to set a palm to his skin. He was on fire! No wonder he was sleeping like the dead. He was precariously close tobeingdead! She looked around wildly for the pouch of herbs that she’d intended to give him to see to his wounds. Where was it?
She didn’t see the pouch, and her worry grew. She began shoving the leaves and twigs off McCaim, praying he had it, and when the first pile of leaves fell from his legs, she stilled, surprised to find them half bare. Before, he’d worn some form of clothing she’d never seen before, that covered all of his legs but now he wore a plaid and braies, which stopped at his knees. Her pulse quickened as she carefully brushed more leaves and twigs away, half expecting him to wake at any moment, but he did not move. Despite the cold, despite the fact that he wore only a plaid wrapped in a manner that told her he’d never wrapped a plaid before, his skin was searing hot all the way up his long, muscular legs to his waist. The plaid had been tugged low, displaying the muscles that formed hard lines all the way down to the bottom edge of the plaid. She swallowed, taking in his festering wounds on the front of his chest, wounds that were a result of her words.
She needed to make haste, but she could not leave him. Not like this. He’d die. She’d cleanse his wounds, make an ointment from whatever she could find in the woods, and then cover them as best she could. Then she’d depart. Today? Not likely. If the ointment was going to work, it could take several days. By then, Deirdre would be worried sick about her. Would the baron search for them? Of course, he would. And if he found them, she had no doubt he would take McCaim’s life. She had to make certain they were well hidden and that McCaim lived. Then she would tell him how to get to Perthshire.
She leaned over to get a better look at the depth of his wounds when she saw the pouch. It was secured to his other shoulder and under his back. Crying out with relief, she tried to tug it free, but it was stuck under him. She wiggled her fingers under his back, feeling the taut muscles as she did so. The man was solid everywhere. Letting out a loud grunt, she managed to lift him high enough to free the pouch, and as she was doing so, she saw a sword sheathed under him. With more grunting, cursing, and sweating, she drew the sword and set it to the side. Had he undressed the guard she’d drugged? He must have.
Shaking her head, she rose, moved away from him, and stomped through the brush to ascertain where they were. She didn’t recognize this part of the forest, which meant they were not close to the castle. How he had managed to get them so far away in his condition, she did not know, but somehow he had. She just hoped the effort had not hurt him too much more. He’d hidden them well, it seemed, but to make certain, she took the time to pick her way through the woods in every direction as best she could. They were nowhere near a path. It seemed unlikely that the baron would find them where they were, but she would need to locate water to clean his wounds.
It took the better part of the morning to find water. Not because it was very far away, though. It turned out that there was a stream rather close to them, but the woods were so thick that she did not discover the stream until the sun was directly overhead. Once she had access to water, she mixed an ointment and sat down next to McCaim. She ripped a piece of material from her gown to tend to his wounds, starting low near the edge hem of the plaid. She worked her way up over his raw skin, alternating between fascination at the way he was formed to horror over what he’d endured.
Midway up his stomach, he groaned and moved, and she froze.
“Jenny?”
His hoarse whisper rang in her ears after the hours of silence. Slowly, she lifted her head, her gaze meeting his glassy one. His head was raised and his eyes were open, but the gray was cloudy with confusion and fever.
She swallowed. “Nay, ’tis Maggie Irvine. I mean, Lady Margaret.”
“Maggie Irvine? Maggie? Maggie May?” A chuckle rumbled from him and made her smile. Then as suddenly as he’d spoken, he dropped his head back and started waving his arms in the air above him. To her surprise, he started to sing.“‘You made a first-class fool out of me. But I’m as blind as a fool can be. You stole my heart, but I love you anyway.’”
Maggie’s mouth slipped open. He had a lovely voice, even if he was quite assuredly delirious. Did he know another woman named Maggie?
“‘Maggie, I’d wished I’d never seen your face.’”She glared at him when he sang those words, though she knew he could not be singing about her.“‘I’ll get on back home one of these days.’”His arms dropped to his sides, and he fell silent once more.
She waited a few breaths to ensure he was asleep, and then she rose a bit to double-check his face. His eyes were closed, and his head was turned sideways so she could only see his profile, but that small glimpse lodged her breath in his chest. A sort of passionate beauty made his features. Shoving down her fanciful thoughts, she went back to the work of tending him, and as she did, she made a mental list of what she needed to do once the ministrations to his wounds were complete.
They’d need to eat. Luckily, she’d killed rabbits before, but she’d have to catch one and start a fire, and—
Nay. She would only start a fire if they were in danger of freezing. The less opportunity for the baron and his men to see smoke, the better.
She groaned. They’d have to eat whatever nuts and berries she could find in the forest. As if to protest, her stomach growled.
Once he was properly cared for and his wounds were covered, she sat there for a long while until shadows grew overhead and the temperatures began to drop again. Her teeth chattered, but she did not think freezing to death would be a danger—yet. But she was exhausted, hungry, and as much as she hated to admit it, she was scared. She was scared he wouldn’t get better. She was scared an animal would attack them or they’d be found by the baron. She was scared to go back to the castle. With all the fear making her tremble, she resolved to control it. Taking a long breath, she shoved to her feet and made her way out into the growing darkness to find something to eat.
She worked quickly, knowing if she lost all daylight it would be hard to find her way back to McCaim. Once her skirts were full of forest gatherings, she returned to him and painstakingly forced a few berries into his mouth and prayed he’d live to see tomorrow.
Chapter Seven
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
